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“Of the proposition?” I asked with a smile. “Yeah, Braden told me last night that there’s no pressure. I appreciate that, but I’m open to trying it.”
“No pressure,” he repeated. “Expectations like that are not a good foundation for any sort of relationship.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” I said. “But speaking of expectations, when are you going to take me on a date?”
His cheeks turned every shade of red, and he blinked rapidly as he replaced his glasses and ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “Um. A date. Yes.”
It was adorable how awkward he was about it. Andy was a very good-looking guy, in a sexy-nerd kind of way. I could imagine him serenading me with long explanations of lighting science and audio frequencies before kissing me goodnight.
“I guess I should say there’s no pressure,” I added when he still fumbled for an answer. “That’s a two-way street, too.”
“No, yeah, right,” he stammered. “Well. Um. Tonight I have a meeting with Director Atkins to discuss the technical budget…”
“What about tomorrow?” I asked. “I have to work at the bar, but we don’t have rehearsal, so we could get dinner beforehand.”
He blinked rapidly again. He had the greenest eyes I’d ever seen in my life. “Dinner. Yes. That sounds nice.”
I stuck my hand out. “Then it’s a date.”
“It’s a date.” His hand enveloped mine as he shook.
Footsteps moved down the stairs, then a sleepy-looking Dorian stepped into the kitchen. He wore long checkered pajamas, and a The Killers concert shirt on top. He mumbled something that might have been “Good morning,” but was butchered halfway through by a huge yawn.
“This is for you,” I said, handing him my coffee mug.
His eyes brightened. “You’re an angel.”
I struck a pose with my arms out. “The angel of caffeine!” His long blond hair was down rather than in a bun, and was as silky-smooth as any Victoria’s Secret model. “Actually, you’re the angel. That hair’s prettier than mine.”
He took it the way I intended: as a compliment. “I try my best. Ready for a morning of fabulous temp work?”
“Just as soon as I make myself a cup of coffee. I can’t get over this coffee machine!”
“Here,” Andy said, handing me his cup. “I’m not in a hurry this morning. It’s cooled enough to drink.”
I sipped the coffee, and then let out a noise like an exaggerated version of last night’s bedroom orgasm. “Holy shit, that’s good. I’ll never be able to go back to a normal machine.”
“Told you.”
*
“The office is in the Bronx,” Dorian told me as we left the townhouse. “140th Street. The 6-train drops off one block from the temp agency.”
My first impulse was to mentally calculate the time it would take to get there from Queens, and the best route. Then I remembered I was already in the Upper East Side. It was nice walking only a few blocks to the subway station, and even nicer to be in a part of the city that was safe. Rather than constantly scanning the alleys and gauging whether or not passersby were potential threats, I was able to relax and enjoy the crisp morning with Dorian.
He was a sharp dresser with good taste. He wore burgundy jeans and black boots, with a matching black belt. His Merino wool sweater was a dark grey, which contrasted well with his fitted knee-length trench coat. Paired with his sharp, attractive face? He easily could have been a model.
“So what gig will we be doing today?” I asked on the subway.
In the seat next to me, Dorian gave an elaborate shrug of his shoulders. His smile was part humor, part mischief. “That’s the exciting thing about temp work. It’s always a mystery.”
“Like a box of chocolates?”
His voice took on a Forrest Gump accent. “You never know what you’re gonna get!”
We giggled to ourselves.
“How long have you been doing this?”
